What Might Have Been
by NotMarge
Summary: He could have had a good life.


I do not own Captain America: Winter Soldier

Still freaking out over it though!

What Might Have Been

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James Buchannan "Bucky" Barnes. He could have been anything. He could have done anything. In his time, he was the epitome of a fine, upstanding, young American man. He was tall, well built. He had expressive blue-grey eyes that men found sincere and trustworthy and women found alluring and charming. He was intelligent and exhibited all the good manners of a gentleman.

He had always done the right thing. Followed the path laid out before him. Done what was expected of him. Dressed the part. Acted the part. Was the part. A good man. And he didn't mind it. It had felt good. It had felt right. He had enjoyed being a good man.

As a truly good man will be, he was also a good friend. To all his acquaintances and friends. Especially Steve. Little Steve Rogers. A small man with a giant heart of goodness and bravery. Bucky admired Steve for his stout courage and principals.

Steve Rogers, who had been dealt a poor hand by life. Always so small, so overlooked for what was on the outside that most people never bothered to see what was on the inside. Parents deceased too early, leaving him on his own. And though Bucky did feel sorry for him, he also admired Steve's resilient spirit. And he knew he would go with his friend all the way to the end of the line.

When the opportunity arose, Bucky had not hesitated to enlist in the army. Serve his country. Do his duty for the cause. He trained hard to fight the enemy, whoever that may be. He learned all he could to perform his best. And he succeeded. Even in the face of war, he had felt a sense of camaraderie, of belonging. Like so many other before him, he was a good man, a good soldier.

He might have had a good life.

Behind enemy lines. Covert missions with his battalion. Some won. Some lost. Finally, ambushed, captured. Trapped. Tortured. Experimented on. And then, unbelievably, rescued by none other than his friend, Captain America, Steve Rogers. Little Steve, who seemed now so much taller, stronger. On the outside. And still the same brave, loyal, humble Steve on the inside.

Rescued. Along with his entire battalion. Set free. Saved. To fight again.

He might still have had a good life.

He had always thought when his service to his country was concluded, he would go back into the world. Get some sort of a job. He hadn't really considered what kind of job it would. Something to pay the bills. Fall in love with a good woman with a joyful laugh who made him smile.

But for now, that life must be put aside for his country. Fighting beside Captain America and his chosen battalion. Making great strides against the evil organization known as Hydra. And they would win. They must, eventually.

In the end, the good guys always won, didn't they?

So many missions that he would never tell to anyone. Top secret. Dangerous. Mind and body straining. But the load was lightened by the men at his side. The good men he could trust. That he could believe in. He would fight beside them and he would die for them if he must.

He might even then have had a good life.

After all the missions were over. After they had won against the villainous Hydra. He would learn how to rejoin and live in normal, civilian society. Sure, it might be a challenge but it was something he could do.

He thought when he found that right woman, they would marry. Buy some small bungalow to share together. Nothing big, nothing impressive. Just a place to call home. Mow the small lawn on the weekends. Grill out in the backyard. Quiet evenings together. Sunday mornings at church. Walking through life, hand in hand.

A simple life. A quiet life. Nothing extraordinary. Nothing extravagant. Just. Living. Simply and well.

Children. He could be a good father, a good dad. Bounce babies on his knee. Play catch in the yard. Wash the car together. Walk the little scholars to school. Family talks over dinner.

But then, that fateful mission. The train. That train on the railway to Hell. And everything, step by step, had gone wrong. He had never quite thought it would really be the end. They had fought through so much, survived so much. Hanging from the edge, the vast maw of emptiness yawning below like a massive beast ready to swallow him whole. Steve Rogers, Captain America, reaching out for him. Calling his name. Feeling the first traces of doubt. That he might not survive this one.

And then he had fallen. Into the white, frozen wasteland. And miraculously survived. Continued to breathe.

Even then, _even_ _then_, he might still have had a good life.

His body was damaged, sorely injured. The arm was useless, destroyed, mangled. There was nothing for that. It would require amputation. Rehabilitation. Relearn to live life with one arm. There were worse things, worse fates. He could make it work. He could survive. When he got home, he could still find some sort of employment. A teacher perhaps. Crafting, molding, inspiring young minds.

Holidays. Flowers on Valentine's. Breakfast in bed for Mother's Day. Fireworks on the Fourth. Turkey for Thanksgiving. Twinkling lights at Christmas. Candles on birthday cakes.

He might, _just_ _might_ have still have had a good life.

If the right people had found him.

Except _they_ found him. The wrong _they_.

All good things in life had come easy for him. Naturally so. Sometimes with a little hard work and determination, sure. And thus it would only make sense that the bad things would not come easily.

The pain, the brainwashing, the elocutions. The reprogramming. Those things did not come easy. They came hard. With much agony, pain, and misery.

He had fought against it as hard as he could. As much he could. And for as long as he could. And though he did not know it, Bucky Barnes had fought well.

But every man has his breaking point. And they found his. It took a while. A long while, in fact. He did not break easily.

But in the end, he did break.

And then . . . all those good things that might have been . . . were gone.

Because good things do not come to bad men.

And not to the Winter Soldier.

He had lost it. Ripped, torn, slashed away. All those dreams. Along with his heart and soul. Replaced by a ungodly metal arm and a mind blank of memories, thoughts, and hope.

And he didn't even know it. But sometimes, for a fleeting space of time, sometimes he felt something whispering to him that he could never quite hear. And then the whispers would fade away. And he would be only a hollow shell once more.

All those good things that might have been.

For James Buchannan "Bucky" Barnes.

But not for him.

Not for the Winter Soldier.

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**Okay, okay. I just published a CA: WS one-shot yesterday, I know. But if I don't write this, I won't be able to sleep. So here it is. ;)**

**Thanks to Mirlana, ChestnutBrumby, Maleeha, MoonlitShadowsoftheHumanSoul, InterceptionSunset, starfallen00, Songbird's Tune, and StardustOwl for your kind reviews. You're fantastic! **

**Thanks as well to Apathetic Mortal, AVPMfreakify101, MrsLukeSkywalker1997, Office225, StargateFFWriter, Gumi Takehara, Clemences-are-so-sexy, Imperial Dragon, and IAmTheStars for adding your support to this story.**

**Everybody loves feedback. Leave a review if you like.**


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